


Take me down to friendzone city

by JaneCrocker (DHume)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Friendzone, Other, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:50:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DHume/pseuds/JaneCrocker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompted by a friend, in which "Dirk and Roxy are lovesick teens who want their best friends and commiserate whilst Roxy watches reruns of Harry Potter and Dirk repairs his smuppets".</p>
            </blockquote>





	Take me down to friendzone city

**Author's Note:**

> This is a oneshot, non-betad fic that a friend and I cooked up over text to cheer up a hungover friend! As such it has no plot, is rather silly and probably has many mistakes, which I would appreciate if you pointed them out to me. :)

It’s the third wednesday of the year’s quarter, and that means it’s Stri-Lal Bonding N’ Movies Night.

  
You’ll freely admit that it’s not so much friendly bonding and wholesome movie watching as it is the two of you half-assedly attempted to watch (usually a rerun of a bad sci-fi, which sates both Roxy’s interest in wizards and yours in robots; though since MLP brought in Trixie as a character you’ve snuck in an episode of that here and there, too) movies on the ol’ television whilst Roxy gets drunker until she’s sozzled enough that you can talk about your feelings without repurcussions in the morning, but still. It’s a tradition. It’s important.

  
She even brings a sleeping bag and pajamas, all fuschia pink and spangled with little stars, bless her sozzled heart. The day before you clear out the robot crap, make a Roxy-shaped bedspace and turn the auto-responder on, just for the night.

 

You’d never tell Jake or Jane. Got to preserve a mysterious air and whatnot.  
This quarter it is autumn, the pleasantly cool wind reaching through the open windows in the apartment and the night air tickling your bare arms. There’s an advert break on. Roxy is painting her nails a diabetes-inducing candy pink, the nail polish bottle standing out bright in the washed-blue light from the tv, throwing a shadow up against the brushed metal cocktail shaker by her feet.

  
You’re hunting around for some sort of thread to match the colour of the fabric puppet you’re repairing when she stops painting, puts the bottle away and curls forward, bare feet hanging off the edge of the chair like some idiot crow on a wire or a detective on speed. She hugs her bony pale knees, wide sleeves of her pyjama robes making her look like the world’s least threatening sorcerer.

  
“Dirk, this movie’s boring. I feel like Harry Potter.”

  
You look up from your searching and raise one blond eyebrow.

“Wow, I never would have guessed. Ro-Lal would rather watch little kiddie British wizards running round a drafty castle than a great documentary about asimo, the world’s cutest little fucker. You know, it’s technically illegal to like the characters so much until the fifth book at _least_.”

  
She scowls even as a blush dusts her cheeks, making her even pinker than you thought possible. “Shut up. You don’t have a leg to stand on about guilty crushes so, so _there_.”

  
If you weren’t Dirk Strider, genius and massive intellect, you’d admit to being confused.

  
“What?”

  
Now it’s your turn to go red - damn your white-ass skin, damn it to hell.

“You know, _Jake_? Haha, you think I’m some sort of lightweight who can’t remember our little nights. Silly silly Dirk, silly. Super Psychic Roxy to the rescue, that’s me. Now if you’ll excuse _me_ ,” she adds, unclasping her fuscia-swamped hands from around her knees and using them to push herself off the chair, “My pretty pink nails are dry and I need a drink. Bee to the ar-bee.”

By the time Roxy comes back, a martini glass in one hand and a brandy glass in the other, you’ve finally found the right shade of blue thread and are stitching up the impudently jutting rump of one of your puppets, getting the amount of plushy stuffing just right for all your currency caroming needs.  
She holds out the brandy to you. It doesn’t smell like it has any soda water in it.

  
You accept with a sigh, setting down the plush rump and taking the glass, your hands touching as Roxy’s alcoholic-induced hand eye coordinating failings mean she almost drops the glass.

  
You look at her, pale skin and hair, flushed eyes and nails, nightdress calculatingly short and voluminous pyjama robes serving to emphasis her slight shape, a vision in pink. You wonder, not for the first time, if deep down she doesn’t accept your non interest - even if her conscious mind seems to want to discuss nothing else.

  
“Sit down,” you say. “I’ll get the second one, we watch the Sorcerer’s Stone too much.”

  
She complies, and looks up at you, easy smile already present where you know it will stay for the rest of the evening until she crashes or sobers up.

  
“You mean the Chamber of Secrets?”

  
The shades hide your eye roll.

  
“Yeah, that porntastic title. You’re so weird, you know that?”

  
Her smile tugs; she’s almost reached giggling stage.

 

“No weirder than you, Dirk.” The ur- sound in your name is elongated in a lazy slur, like she’s reluctant to let it go. “Let the show roll!”

  
She snuggles back into the chair again, toes dry enough to risk comfort, and she snakes a thin white hand out from the tent like arms on her robes when she thinks you aren’t looking to snag the blanket from your bed. You’ll pretend you didn’t see that. Completely abandoning your plushy friend you get up, bringing the brandy with you and letting the fumes stink out the apartment as you rummage through your DVDs. God, it’s strong. Slipping the DVD bedecked with serious-looking British kids into your tv you press start and rejoin Roxy in front of it.

 

 

 

You’re halfway through the scene with the cat and the blood when Roxy speaks up, already on her second martini.

  
“Dirk.”

  
“Strider.”

  
“Diiiiiiiiiiiiirk.”

  
“Dee-to-the-ess.”

You decide to answer her, finishing off a blanket stitch before raising your head and taking a moment to appreciate the shocked faces of the schoolkids before hitting the pause button.

  
“What, Roxy.”

 

“Don’t you wish Jake was here?”

Oh god, not this again.

  
“Don’t you wish Jane was here?” You counter.  
That shuts her up until the tearful scene with Hermione at the hospital bed. In a voice so quiet you’re half sure you aren’t meant to hear, she answers, “I do. Haha, this sucks, doesn’t it? Look at us both, man. Look at us both.”

  
After a while she carries on, not seeming to watch the movie - you don’t want to pause it though lest it break the spell of Ye Drunken Confessions. That, and you have a feeling your straight-edge stomach isn’t too savvy about how to deal with the neat brandy thing you usually refuse to drink — so you stay silent.

  
“If only they - ah, no matter where they live I guess they wouldn’t really - it wouldn’t matter, we’d still be in this mess, this sad sad mess the two of us. Hah,” and she giggles, finally.

  
You decide to risk clearing your throat and speaking, but only after a few surreptitious deep breaths and eye blinks. You wouldn’t want to loose your aloof and coolth, now.

  
… Ah, who are you kidding. You’re just sore that Roxy knows your secret.

  
You try to explain that, yeah, it sucks that the two of you are kind of in love with your best friends and that yeah, you’re not interested in anyone else and Roxy just seems to be interested in everyone which is why it really sucks when nothing works out because heck, she’s a great young woman who’s perhaps a little too permantly pickled but that doesn’t matter because she’s a great gamer and hacker and genetic manipulator, fenestrating cocktail-shaking chick who you’re really glad is your best friend and you’re grateful to know and play Sburb with, but all that comes out is a slightly hoarse “Come here.”

  
And she does, almost lolling off the chair as she stands up a little unsteadily, dragging your blanket with its cue balls and colours like a night sky in a pool-addict’s dream as a cape to her robe, and you two sit together in silence as the kids save the day and the credits roll.


End file.
